J W LAWSON

Third Time Lucky: Elise

 

 

 Elise remained transfixed by her image in the full-length mirror in the wet room. The woman standing there now in the oversized pyjamas scowled at the

 person  staring back; the stranger.

 “Who are you?” she asked, watching the mouth in the mirror ask the same question. Her pupils enlarged and she glared back at Elise. Her once long eyelashes

 had stuck to her swollen eyelids and, beneath them, dark trails ran down to the bridge of her nose, which was red and scabbed. The mouth that had spoken to

 her just a moment before was covered in sores and, as it tried to talk to the woman in the pyjamas, her lips cracked and droplets of blood ran onto her chin,

 which was covered in acne and matched the cheeks of the alien face.

​

 Her ribs protruded, like keys on a giant piano keyboard. She ran her fingers down one and felt the bump where a break had healed a few years before.

 She continued to run her finger down towards her navel, then stopped. Her reflection’s eyes moved towards her fingers and stared at the minute bulge under

 them. Her fingers stroked the bump gently, paused for a moment, then moved towards the waistband of the pyjama bottoms. Elise wriggled and they dropped, 

 forming a crumpled mess at the reflection’s ankles – which were attached to legs that looked like knotted ropes, grazed and bruised and so unbelievably thin.   The reflection closed her eyes, too distressed to acknowledge the sight in front of her – the sight that she knew was herself.

​

 She cried salty tears as she caught a glimpse of the scars. Trying to count them all, as she had in the past, she stopped at twenty-three. Twenty-three circular   burns, twenty-three cigarettes and twenty-three years she had suffered – yet the other thirty burns, for now, she would ignore. Turning round, she studied her

 back; her vertebrae poked out like an old cobbled path and the scar on her bottom looked raw and sore. Although the knife had slashed her skin at least a decade

 before, the scar was a constant reminder of the torture she had endured for most of her life. Once again, the eyes in the mirror turned away from the image   they were presented with.

​

 Twenty-three years she had suffered. Right now, she didn’t feel she could face another twenty-three seconds.

 

​

Mummy's Little Angel: Laura

 Joanne
You arrived within fifteen minutes, just as you predicted. How on earth do you do it, Susan? I am always late despite my very best intentions: I was late for my wedding, late picking up the girls from school and always far too late getting them to school. The number of detentions the twins had due to missing

 registration in the morning was endless – poor loves, and it was entirely my fault as I was always so incredibly disorganised.

I tried, Susan, I really did! I’d prepare their school lunches the night before, remembering to pop them into the fridge with a little carton of orange juice for each

 of the twins. I’d then read the girls’ timetable, ensuring that if it was cookery or, in Maggie’s case, woodwork, the ingredients were packed and the money

 required for Maggie’s latest project were all placed on the kitchen worktop. Yet as soon as the twins awoke, all chaos would let loose, I’d lose control, Jeff would

 leave for work, and I’d become late.
As always, he made light of the situation… my darling Jeff. “You’ll be late for your own funeral, Kirsty!” I was late for his instead.
I’m trying to avoid writing about tonight; you are, at long last sleeping but I can’t sleep, Susan. Heck I wish that I could just collapse into a drunken stupor as you   have just now. Remember the four of us pre-kids? Oh my goodness how on earth we managed to consume that volume of alcohol in one short evening still 

 baffles me. Mind you, looking at the empty bottle of gin laying on the carpet, we did pretty well tonight too. It didn’t make us daft and carefree like in the good

 old days though did it, Susan? Quite the opposite. Robert warned me that gin makes you depressed and yet again, he was right.

 When you turned up, you were armed not only with gin but a vast selection of goodies too. Crisps, peanuts and chocolate were packed into the carrier bag, along

 with some magazines you’d read; you’d saved them just for me. I couldn’t meet your eyes, let alone show any enthusiasm at the prospect of having a fun girls’

 night in. I know that your intentions were so kind, Susan. They always are:

 “Oh come on Jo, you look so sad. Cheer up! I know, let’s crack open the gin, pig-out on junk and watch a chick-flick. What do you reckon?”
“Sit down, Susan, please sit down and listen to what I have to say before I lose my courage.”
You grabbed a couple of glasses from the cabinet, poured us each a neat gin and obediently sat down on the comfy armchair.
I sat close to you, on what I call ‘Robert’s chair’ and you passed me the glass. I took a mouthful for Dutch courage and you smiled.
“Better?”
I wasn’t better and nor was this God-forsaken situation. Your smile dissipated and you too gulped a large mouthful from your glass, sensing that I had 

 something quite serious to share with you. I know that you had no idea of how serious the conversation would be though. I am so very sorry.
I pointed to the large wooden box which I’d moved intentionally on to the coffee table. Struggling to reach it, you grabbed the box and passed it to me.
“Stop trying to be so independent Jo; you must let others help you. I wish that you weren’t so bloody stubborn.”
You studied the inscription on the box as I did the day Robert presented the horrors within it to me.
“Oh bless, I remember that box Jo. Mags made it at school didn’t she and she was so chuffed as she got a merit that day. You and Jeff were so proud of her; do 

 you remember?”
Of course I remembered. How could I forget? It was the only merit Maggie ever received. I forced a smile and nodded.
“I remember, Susan, but it’s the contents of the box that I need to show you, not the nice memories associated with it.”
You downed your gin in one large gulp and poured another.
“Jesus Jo, you’re scaring me now. What the hell is in there? I can tell that it’s bad; you’ve lost the little colour you had when I turned up. Pass it to me if you

 won’t tell me. It’s obviously quite dreadful. Let me at least take that one burden away from you.”

 Like the stupid Churchill dog, I continued to nod and robotically opened the lid.
“It is bad, Susan but it…”
“What Jo? Oh come on now, after what we’ve both been through, it can’t be that bad. Give it to me; come on, let’s get this little façade out of the way then we

 can get really drunk!”
You grabbed the opened box away from my shaking hand. It fell to the floor and Matilda’s eyes appeared to glare in your direction. You were completely still. 

 Your eyes remained transfixed on the little dolly and you remained motionless – like a corpse, yet you were still breathing.
Your eyes met mine. I can’t explain how you looked… angry, devastated, bitter, and sad and, as ironic as it sounds now, at peace. I fell onto the carpet and 

 crawled next to you, stroking your legs, seeking comfort: as you did. Words could not escape from my mouth. The all familiar deafening silence swamped the 

 room, ghosts from the past formed shadows on the walls, shrouding us, suffocating us both. We were both drowning in our sorrow.
“I am so, so sorry, Susan.”
You stared blankly at me and grabbed Matilda by her head. You stroked her plastic face and ran your finger over her little eyelids. They blinked. You did not. You

 lifted her rigid body closer to your face, smelling her, stroking her hair, moving her little legs, studying her tiny fingers.
“Laura loved this dolly so much.”
I fell into you. I didn’t mean to but I was so weak.
“Robert found the box, Susan.”
You stopped stroking Matilda’s hair and placed her gently next to you.
“Where?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask him.” I replied honestly.
You picked up the dolly again and continued to smell her plastic body.
“I want to smell my little girl again, Joanne. I thought, I thought that I might just pick up her scent, as Laura cuddled Matilda in bed every single night. She’d curl

 her tiny fingers into Matilda’s hair and make a funny little humming noise as she drifted into sleep. Matilda was Laura’s comfort: just like Annie and Mags had

 their blanket. I just want to feel my baby again Jo. I want my baby back…”
I cried so hard, not from self-pity but from the empathy I felt for my dear friend. I too felt an enormous sense of loss when I lost Jeff but he’d lived for forty-

 eight years. I felt enormous grief at ‘losing’ my girls but they were still living and breathing and I could see them too. Susan had completely and utterly lost her

 one baby.
I stroked your hand. You shoved it away bitterly.
“How did you get this, Joanne?” Your trembling voice became strong. Then angry.
“Not yet, Susan, there’s more.”
“More? Oh Christ, Joanne, what the hell have you found now? The shotgun, an axe, the fucking knife that stabbed my baby to death? A fire-work to remember

 that infamous night by? Oh come on now: show me all of your little mementoes, you may as well. Oh and whilst you’re at it, you may as well get the petrol can

 out… the one that burned my little baby to a charred skeleton.”
I couldn’t help it but I snapped back. I too was under enormous pressure:
“The box isn’t that big, Susan.”
“Just fucking let me have it.”
I let you have it – the box that is. I poured us both another drink and I downed mine in a single mouthful. I still felt dreadful.
It was then that you cried. I watched you as you stroked the clump of hair and smelled it as you had the dolly. Your eyes met mine.
“I can smell her, Joanne. I can smell my baby.”
My eyes streamed like a waterfall as I studied you clinging onto the one last physical piece of your little girl. You clutched it firmly then you passed the hair to me.
“Smell it Jo; it’s Laura! It’s my little baby. Oh thank you Jo, thank you so much for bringing her back to me.”
I felt physically sick as you grabbed the hair back and placed it onto Matilda’s tummy.
“My baby. You found part of my baby.”
I could take no more. I had to end the pain for you, Susan. I gently removed the little red shoe from the box and placed it next to Matilda and the hair.
“Robert found this too.”
You didn’t acknowledge the shoe but continued to rock back and forth clutching the hair and Matilda humming ‘Hush little baby.’ I tried to stop you and once

 again you pushed me away.
“Shhhh, I’m just getting Laura off to sleep. Don’t worry my baby, Mummy will protect you. Mummy’s here.”
I was powerless. I contemplated calling Robert but I did not. I must learn to cope with life on my own; I will have to, as soon I will be alone.
 The independence will do you good, Joanne.
Will it, Robert? I somehow doubt it.
I racked my brains trying to formulate a plan. What would Robert do in this situation?
I picked up the telephone, tempted to call the police and end this torture now. I stopped as the shoe slammed against my back. Your eyes were enraged.
“Who took this shoe away from Laura? It’s her favourite pair. Somebody must have stolen it from her. How on earth will she manage to get home with only one

 shoe?”
“She doesn’t need the shoe anymore, Susan.”
“Oh right, so what’s she going to do; hop all the bloody way home?”
I gained an inner strength to continue.
“She doesn’t need shoes in Heaven.”
You dropped Matilda and the hair. They fell onto your lap.
“Heaven? Who said anything about pissing Heaven?”
“She’s gone, Susan.” I gulped hard and inhaled deeply. “Laura’s dead. I am so, so sorry but she’s no longer with us my love; she’s a little angel now watching

 down on you.”
You grabbed the bottle of gin and drank a massive mouthful straight from the bottle before starting to shake; then you screamed at me. You cried again, this

 time tragic, sad tears… not bitter ones. I wished that I’d had a tissue nearby but you didn’t seem to care.
“Oh my God. You are right. My baby, my precious little angel is gone.”
You looked so coldly at me; it scared me, Susan, as I had never seen that look before.
“Who put Laura’s things in the box? Who found them? Was it Jeff – your wonderful, darling husband? Was it him Jo? Come on now, tell me or I’ll beat the truth

 out of you.”
“No it wasn’t Jeff.”
Your features became contorted as you met my eyes again. You yelled at me angrily.
“It was that fucking psycho of a daughter of yours wasn’t it? The one that should’ve been banged up but managed to conveniently forget every pissing thing

 that was of any relevance. Maggie did it didn’t she?”
I closed my eyes and replied softly before shuffling away towards Robert’s chair.
“No, neither of them did it. It was Annie.”
“Annie? Oh come on, she may have possibly killed the others but she adored Laura, and Laura loved Annie with all of her heart. Impossible Jo. You are talking

 complete and utter crap. Mags did it; the ugly, hateful little bitch. She loathed my baby. She despised her. She did it Jo. Not Annie.”
I didn’t know what to say just then. The memories of Maggie’s joy when I mentioned the box and she spoke excitedly of the treasure hunt and of Matilda, 

 reassured me that I was correct with my presumption.
I then took a mouthful of gin from the bottle before spluttering a response.
“Call it gut instinct, but I know that it was Annie. Mags, well Mags would never have hurt little Laura. I know that she had a temper but she adored her. And

 although Maggie found the box, she explained how that happened too. It was a treasure hunt, Susan; an innocent game in her very simple world.”
You snapped.
“Innocent game you say? Oh that’s simply grand isn’t it? Hey kids, let’s look for the dead girl’s dolly. Oh and while you’re at it, try to find her hair and her shoe

 as well. And guess what kids: the prize is…”
It was my turn to snap – again.
“Shut up Susan. Stop this now; it’s getting you nowhere. Anger is pointless and at last you have the evidence that will finally close this horrific chapter of yours

 and Richard’s lives. The police will re-open the case and solve the mystery of Laura’s murder once and for all. And you, my love, my dear friend, will finally find

 closure. It’s not easy for me either, Sue… knowing that, knowing that Annie took your baby away from you. I hate this whole situation almost as much as you do.”

 At last you heard me Sue and you calmed down. The tears stopped flowing for a brief moment as well.
“You’re right. At least we have the stuff now and I’ll take it to the police tomorrow. I’m sorry Jo too. It can’t be easy for you either.”
I moved towards you and, at last I received a warm hug. We both sobbed into each other’s arms. You pulled away and looked into my eyes before stuttering

 those awful words to me.
“But I know that it was Mags though: now that you’ve found her box and the incriminating contents.”
“How can you be so sure Sue?”
You finished the bottle of gin and held my hand tightly.
“Laura’s murderer stabbed her six times… Maggie was strong and well-built wasn’t she?”
I nodded recollecting her puppy fat and large frame.
“Annie was as skinny as a rake.”
I smiled and nodded again as I recalled her trousers falling half-way down her legs and her scowling at me as she yanked them up again.
“The forensic examinations revealed the angle at which the knife penetrated Laura’s heart.”
I didn’t know that but I nodded anyhow.
“They said that it was personal.”
“I know,” I whispered.
“And they said that Laura’s killer was right handed.”
I nodded before the stark realisation slammed through my body as the knife had through Laura’s.
“Maggie’s right-handed Jo.”
I nodded one final time.
Susan went to bed sobbing and took the box with her clutching it close against her chest. I finish this entry, alone and heartbroken and, once again, I question

 whether I ever knew my daughters at all.

 

 

Hush Little Baby: The beginning

Prologue

 

Hush, little baby, don't say a word.
Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird

And if that mockingbird won't sing,
Papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring

And if that diamond ring turns brass,
Papa's gonna buy you a looking glass

And if that looking glass gets broke,
Papa's gonna buy you a billy goat

And if that billy goat won't pull,
Papa's gonna buy you a cart and bull

And if that cart and bull turn over,
Papa's gonna buy you a dog named Rover

And if that dog named Rover won't bark
Papa's gonna buy you a horse and cart

And if that horse and cart fall down,
You'll still be the sweetest little baby in town.

​

You will always be the sweetest baby in town. But the rest of this stupid nursery rhyme is bullshit. It’s all fucking bollocks and I’m glad that he’s dead.

Sick Jeff Stokes.

My Papa.

                                                                                                    ***

​

 Half a mile from home, she’s there. It’s not very far at all. Just a quick walk which I always enjoy. Molly seems to love it too, her eyes bright, watching every 

 movement from her pram. It never ceases to amaze me how alert she is but then again, her daddy is smart. Old, but intelligent. It’s a shame that she’ll have to

 attend his funeral before she’s all grown up. But she’ll get over it, we all do.

 I follow the windy, mud-smothered path which takes me to the cemetery; I stop dead in my tracks. It’s always quiet this time of the day yet, from the corner of 

 my eye, I see a shadow. Despite my sleep deprivation due to Molly teething and keeping me up half the night, I’m wide awake. No, it’s not my imagination –

 somebody is standing over there, in MY sacred place. The place that she, the bitch was laid to rot just a few weeks ago.

 The shadow is unaware that I am watching its every move. Molly is watching it too; she can see the unfamiliar, alien image in front of her eyes. She should do;

 she’s been here almost every day of her life.

 I open the gate. It creaks, and then slams shut once I’ve pushed the pram through, the gate clattering noisily against the rotting posts, twisting the already

 rusting hinges out of shape. The shadow is distracted. I rapidly turn away to face Molly and be the ‘perfect Mummy’. I’m stroking her cheeks and making her

 giggle with the funny faces I’m pulling. Her bright blue eyes light up, her gummy smile forces my heart to skip a beat. So much love. I feel so much love for my child.

 I bend down, still hiding my face from the shadow, yet, as I open Molly’s baby bag to retrieve her dummy, I snatch a brief glimpse of the shadow. It’s crouching

 towards the grave. I can hear it sob.

 I toss the dummy into the pram, no longer able to hold back from the intrusion. I run frantically to my place, leaving Molly just a few paces away. I see it there,

 at my graves. The shadow jumps up as I lunge towards its cloak with my clenched fist. I want to tear its flesh away from its face, make it suffer for this

 despicable intrusion. Pay the ultimate price for entering into my territory … the shrine to my victims.

 I pull the cloak’s hood away from the shadow’s head revealing its face. It has long, flowing hair, similar to mine. Its eyes are similar to mine too. Cold and empty.

 Dead, even.

 I shake frantically, partly in anger, partly in terror. This cannot be real. I am in a trance, a nightmare. I study the graves that are my property. The graves belong

 to me, yet the shadow has placed a single red rose on each of them. I scream at the monstrous being in front of me. How dare it. Such an intrusion on my

 prized possessions.

“No, this isn’t real. It can’t be; this is your grave, your shrine. This is impossible. You are dead. I tortured you. I MURDERED you.”